Midway through this rigorous, bizarre beginning I elected to research the novel independent of its pure text. (I also realized early on that I wanted to, or rather need to obtain an annotated version of the work so that I would not miss any of Joyce's beyond-brilliant musings. I hesitate to continue on with the un-annotated version I'm reading because I know that I probably won't go back to boot camp if I obtain the annotated copy. I'll come out of it with a passing mark nonetheless, and a private's bar when I could emerge a second lieutenant). When I reviewed summaries of the three chapters I'd read I realized that this trek I am beginning will have to be supported by extrinsic assistance if I'm to tease all the brilliance and comedic seasoning from Ulysses -- not unlike the Appalachian "through hiker" whose spouse opaquely meanders in the general direction of the Mr. or Ms. Hiker, meeting up at predetermined mountain townships and glacial gaps to reinvigorate his love with dark chocolate, fresh wear, and a rented showerstall.
I'm headed to Maine.
I've hit another almost unbearable series of pages. Going to require assistance. It's time to create an algorhythm that will map my progress in terms of miles, rugged miles, toward Kennekaw or Kennisaw or Mount Kennicutt (now I'm going to pause and find out), Mount Kathadin (I was close).
So there are 783 pages. I read about every third page twice. That's 261 additional pages. Have to count them, too. So the total punishing pagewidth is 1,044. Now, the Appalachian Trail extends 2,180 miles. Roughly twice the page count of Ulysses. So, for every page I read, I've travelled two miles toward Mountain Katahdin. Kathahdin mountain. Now, I thus far read 92 pages. Add a third back to it, you get about 120. I'm out of Georgia. Technically, if you go by actual pages read, I'm at Bly Gap.
I think that this plowing furlough has given me a brain tumor in my left eye.
At this juncture I've read 250 pages that detail nebulous characters walking aimlessly around nebulous early-twentieth century Dublin. I hate this book. I hate the man who wrote it. But I hate with exponential force those who dubbed Ulysses the greatest work of fiction of the twentieth century. I gave up last night, but I'm re-considering my decision now that my blood pressure has eased. I DON'T GET IT !
I did learn a term that is new to even me, who has maybe the best grasp of profane vulgarity in Dublin and elsewhere. "Bitch's Bastard." He's a bitch's bastard. Can't wait to use this when I'm talking behind the back of some bitch's bastard.
But the investment of time and sentience cannot justify the yield. Not yet anyway.
I'm starting to hate James Joyce. I'm starting to wish that Irish dogs would dig up his bones and scatter them around Dublin.
Alas I've reached a plateau, where the hike levels and the flowers bloom for all bitches bastards who pass. Protagonist has ADHD. Midway during a conversation he imagines a giant sitting on a boulder and then carefully inventories every square inch of his massive frame, straps and logos an all. At once I understood. Ulysses is meant to be read aloud!
Holy God from Holy Hell! Midway in my trek I rounded the tailend of another of ten thousand switchbacks, rose up above the rocks to the mountains yet, and just before I began to cry because I had made a massive error in taking this adventure, I was visited by a fairy, and she was red hot, compliments of a man from another world, named James Joyce:
"[O]ur lust is brief. We are means to those small creatures within us and Nature has other ends than we."
Now that I have read these words I am eager to die so that they can be engraved on my stone just below my meaningless name.
Ulysses is not really a novel. It's a poem. It's the sign language that our silent consciousness uses to "communicate its rigor." I'm learning sign language. Ulysses is teaching me sign language. And I read my lessons aloud now. I am quite honestly in awe of this work of art. You have to earn it, and I now see the reward. My fairy awaits me behind the sandstone. She is turned over and she is turned up for me. Just for me. It's all been worth it. Thank you, Mr. Joyce.
September 14: I thought I was finally levelling out. In my mind's eye I saw miles of non-threatening plateau. It was not to be. I'm at the midway point. Pine Grove Furnace State Park in Pennsylvania. The topography is ostensibly non-threatening. So what is it that is making it midway to Maine that is vexing me so? I'm in trouble again. I remember just a bit back when I was around 290 and the prose just seemed to leap off the page and right into my cerebral pleasure center. That shit seems to be over, for now. Must buckle down. Must stay hydrated.
I'm in too deep. But, I'm going to complete the mission if for no other reason than this: I will not be haunted by the ghosts of Ulysses, who tease me for not completing the balance of the crooked line that meanders up the Appalachians to Mt. Katahan in Maine.
It's going to happen like it's already happened to Blazes Boylan and Mrs. Molly Bloom. I can see the mountain from here. I smell a faint waft of Lobster and Mayonnaise.
The final 100 or so miles (45 pages of Molly Bloom's musings) was rigorous. I found that the best way for me to read the so-called stream-of-consciousness narrative was to read aloud, which I did. It worked for me. Molly's recollection of Bloom's proposal to her in Gibralter completed the work: "I asked him with my eyes to ask again yes and then he asked me would I yes to say yes my mountain flower and first I put my arms around him yes and drew him down to me so he could feel my breasts all perfume yes and his heart was going like mad and yes I said yes I will Yes."
Having now plowed through Ulysses for the first time, I'm ready to read Ulysses. Reading Ulysses is predicate to reading Ulysses. So, having now read it, cover to cover, I can safely concede that I'll probably never get around to reading Ulysses.
